The young master Kaimu was sifting through his inbox when
he came upon a message from an unknown sender:
My body is ugly, my limbs awkward, my face unseemly—
thus no one looks upon me and desires my companionship.
I have lived many years alone.
My heart sits heavy for I have no one to lighten it—
thus I pass each night coding in the solitude of my
quarters.
Drink and forgetful slumber are my only escape.
My soul is ever in pain—
thus misery follows wherever I tread.
Each day can be no better than the one before.
My mind is dulled from meaningless employment—
thus I have achieved nothing of worth or renown.
When I die, only dust will remain.
My life is friendless, joyless, hopeless, pointless.
What wisdom can you offer?
Kaimu took the letter to Suku, saying: “I am but a
theoretician, and know nothing of being a prisoner to
ugliness. You have mastered the achievement of sublime
beauty through incremental change. What wisdom can you
offer?”
Suku replied: “I, too, suffer imperfections of the flesh,
though they are hidden from view. If the body is an
application, then its source code is uneditable and we must
bear the ungainly user interface as with any legacy system.
Alas, I cannot refactor it.”
Kaimu bowed and went out.
Kaimu took the letter to Bawan, saying: “I am but a
theoretician, and know nothing of the burden of solitude.
You have mastered all physical representations of the
Loneliest Number. What wisdom can you offer?”
Bawan replied: “I niggle over zeroes and ones because when I
look up from my screen the darkness closes in. If the heart
is half an equation that must be balanced against an
equals-sign, then I too peer across the divide into
emptiness. Alas, I cannot solve for your x when there is an
unknown y.”
Kaimu bowed and went out.
Kaimu took the letter to Yishi-Shing, saying: “I am but a
theoretician, and know nothing of souls in pain. You have
mastered the inner workings of machines. What wisdom can you
offer?”
Yishi-Shing replied: “What is a machine, but an artifact
meant to give us the illusion of control, when in truth we
cannot control even our need to draw the next breath? If the
soul is a machine, then its case is the blackest of boxes
and its keyboard forever hidden from the sight of mankind.
Alas, I cannot administer it.”
Kaimu bowed and went out.
Kaimu took the letter to Banzen, saying: “I am but a
theoretician, and know nothing of a life of futility. You
have mastered the ways of attaining perfection in code. What
wisdom can you offer?”
Banzen replied: “Do not mistake obsession for ambition, or
reputation for accomplishment! Perfection is my purpose only
because the lack of it is my pain. Yet what can be perfect
when even number theory is incomplete? What can endure when
the Universe itself is destined to unravel? And here am I: a
miserable wretch who will not be content until his brush has
come to rest upon the last digit of pi! If the mind is a
fractal from which infinite futures might blossom, still we
are all Cantor dust in the end. Alas, I cannot say how to
make something from what must eventually become nothing.”
Kaimu bowed and went out.
Kaimu happened upon the monk Shinpuru, pruning his vines in
the greenhouse. As the monk was older than he, Kaimu told
Shinpuru of the letter. “No master is equal to this matter.
What wisdom can you offer?”
Shinpuru thought a moment, and said half to himself:
“If the body cannot be modified, then its form must suffice.
If the heart cannot be balanced, then it must stand alone.
If the soul cannot be directed, then we must yield to it.
And if the mind is destined to be lost, then all that
matters is the present.”
Then the monk thought a little more, and said to Kaimu:
“Begin your reply thus: When the great wolf Desire pulls
your sledge across the ice, its cub Disappointment will
surely nip at your heels. You must therefore yoke yourself
to yourself...
“Then advise your correspondent: Find within your heart any
things that give you a measure of joy, no matter how
ridiculous they may seem. Fill every moment possible with
these little joys. If they can be shared, so much the
better: go to distant places, meet unfamiliar people, but
take care not to seek companions among them. Seek nothing
except to share your craft with those who ask it of you.
Every moment spent thus will be your legacy.”
Shinpuru resumed his pruning. “If we seek to change the
inner state of an application but we cannot change its code,
then we must change its inputs and hope for the best. It is
not by whim that I became a gardener! Alas, I cannot know
what will bear fruit for others.”
